Caste has several dimensions. It operates at multiple levels and in subtle ways. One of its most inhumane expressions is the systematic restriction of Dalits’ access to the commons. Don’t imagine that the term ‘commons’ in a village refers only to grazing lands or lakes. Temples are commons too. In the past, temples served as important cultural hubs for the community. That’s changed somewhat now.
Published Jun 11, 2025 | 6:36 PM ⚊ Updated Jun 11, 2025 | 6:36 PM
Take Bengaluru’s Lalbagh. You have to pay forty rupees to enter.
Synopsis: The connection between caste and class hardly needs explaining. When everyone is included, the sense of superiority is threatened. That very feeling is at work in our cities too. It manifests in our parks, playgrounds, and lakeside spaces. In the name of caste, it is impossible to restrict anyone’s access to these places. But if there are no restrictions, and access is truly open to all, how then can we maintain the feeling that we are “superior”? So, new, subtler methods are devised. Restrictions are introduced in the name of making parks “beautiful” or “safe.” (This piece was originally published in Kannada on eedina.com and has been reproduced with permission.)
There is a word in Tamil: Poromboke. It can be considered a synonym for the English word Commons. Poromboke, or commons, refers to public spaces meant for collective use.
It could be a road, a playground, or a park. But as I looked more closely into the word Poromboke, I discovered it has acquired a pejorative connotation and is used to denote a kind of valuelessness, or worthlessness, in a person or place.
One of the most distinctive classical singers of our time, TM Krishna, has even composed a song about it.
The song begins with: “Poramboke is not for you, nor for me. It is for the community, it is for the earth…”
It questions why a word that originally denoted something shared and essential came to be used as a derogatory term.
In every society, there exists a ruling class. This does not refer to the government, bureaucrats, or politicians.
Rather, it is an influential group that quietly determines what the government’s priorities should be, what the public ought to think about, and which problems deserve attention.
Recently, a thinker illustrated this with an example: In the early decades of the 20th century, emphasis was placed on primary education because the ruling class needed it.
After that, focus shifted to college education, and gradually, more emphasis was placed on higher education, and excellent universities were built and developed in the country.
But once that ruling class found other avenues for advancement, those institutions began to weaken.
First, primary education was weakened. Later, with the rise of ‘elite’ private universities, attention to public universities – improving their quality, funding them adequately – waned dramatically.
The reason for this example is to highlight how the ruling class rarely acts in plain sight. Its influence is largely indirect. Much of its work is psychological, shaping the collective psychology.
Without even realising it, we become its sacrificial victims. Despite its actions working against the majority of society, we end up speaking its language.
Another example of this dynamic is the culture of dog-loving.
Most English-language newspapers regularly publish detailed articles on how to care for dogs – how to interact with them, what their psychological needs might be, and what sort of food they should be given.
On Instagram and Facebook, there’s a flood of ‘cute’ dog videos. But have you any idea how many dog bite incidents are reported daily in Karnataka?
More than 900. According to a report from Prajavani, a total of 332,754 dog bite cases were officially recorded in Karnataka in 2024.
Bear in mind these figures include only cases where victims actually reported the incident to the Bruhat Bengaluru Mahanagara Palike or other local authorities.
From time to time, we see reports – sometimes accompanied by harrowing videos – of children or elderly people being attacked by packs of stray dogs.
As a result, in many parts of Karnataka, a situation has arisen where it is no longer safe to let children play outside alone.
What is the connection between commons and caste?
Caste has several dimensions – it operates at multiple levels and in subtle ways. One of the most inhumane expressions of caste hierarchy is the systematic restriction of Dalits’ access to the commons.
Lalbagh entrance. (Karnataka horticulture department)
Don’t imagine that the term ‘commons’ in a village refers only to grazing lands or lakes. Temples are commons too. In the past, temples served as important cultural hubs for the community. That’s changed somewhat now.
First, the pace of migration from villages to cities has increased.
Second, many of the cultural activities that once took place in village temples have diminished.
In the name of caste, it was once easy to exclude certain people from such public spaces. In the village, this was simple.
In the city, it’s not so easy. So then, what is to be done?
Before we explore that, let’s reflect briefly on the idea of caste itself. (There are excellent studies that delve deeply into this subject. But here, we’re attempting to understand caste from just one particular angle.)
In one sense, caste is the act of othering – based on the belief that others are inherently inferior, the denial of rights they naturally deserve simply because “they are lower than us.” It is only by deeming others inferior that one begins to perceive oneself as “superior.”
The connection between caste and class hardly needs explaining. When everyone is included, the sense of superiority is threatened.
That very feeling is at work in our cities too. It manifests in our parks, playgrounds, and lakeside spaces.
In the name of caste, it is impossible to restrict anyone’s access to these places.
But if there are no restrictions, and access is truly open to all, how then can we maintain the feeling that we are “superior”?
So, new, subtler methods are devised. Restrictions are introduced in the name of making parks “beautiful” or “safe.”
First, let’s look at this process of “beautifying” and understand how it functions to exclude.
To feel welcome in a space, it must carry a sense of belonging. When it doesn’t, an unspoken fear surrounds us when we try to go there.
Take roadside hotels. You can stop there for a cup of tea; if you have no money, at the very least, you can ask for water. If the place has a toilet, you can use it without feeling out of place.
There are toilets in five-star hotels too. We can also use them without any fee.
If tea costs ten or fifteen rupees in a roadside hotel, it might cost two hundred rupees in a five-star hotel. Say, today we do have the money – can we say, “Let me drink tea for two hundred rupees and come back”?
Could you walk in and use the toilet freely? No, we cannot. Because the design, the size, the beauty of the place itself holds you back.
The walls there, the pictures on the walls, the flower pots – all firmly say, “This was not made for us.” Fine. Perhaps we can’t protest why such places weren’t made for us.
One might argue that it’s no great loss if the expensive tea or interior design keeps us out.
But what happens when the commons – city parks, railway stations, lakesides, footpaths, entire roads – are designed in the same way?
That is exactly what is happening. And it’s being done quietly, subtly – often unconsciously – wrapped in seemingly reasonable logic.
Take Bengaluru’s Lalbagh. You have to pay forty rupees to enter. Why? “For maintenance,” they say. “The costs must be covered.” That might sound fair at first.
But those who come there in the morning for a “walk” are not charged any fee. And who are they? The people living right nearby. Why are they exempt?
And why, you might ask, are the park gates closed in the afternoon?
There’s a simple reason: if kept open in the afternoon, pushcart vendors and “other” sections of people come and lie down on the benches.
The argument is: parks are meant for walking, not for lying down.
So, it has been decided they must be kept closed. Even if we don’t get access, it’s okay – but under no circumstances should they be able to use these places. That’s their real intent.
Now, about safety: “If it’s open to everyone, ‘antisocial’ elements will come. Then what? Women might be harassed, there could be theft or criminal activity. And who will take responsibility?”
But how do we identify who the thieves are, or who might trouble women? The easy answer: by any means, simply exclude the poor.
The assumption behind this is clear: those people are potential criminals.
Because of this, strategies have been devised to make these places more “secure,” more beautiful – to station security personnel near the gates, to impose a five-rupee fee for using the jogging tracks, and so on.
To test this, just look at any “upper-class” area of Bengaluru. Most of them remain empty.
What does it mean if the parks of Bengaluru – a city of over a crore people – have only a handful of visitors?
There is a playground in the area where I live. It doesn’t have a proper gate. Anyone can enter at any time of day or night.
Yet, no one feels unsafe there. There have been no reports of crime. So, why is that playground considered safe?
Not far from there, beside a street in Kengeri, there’s a long park. This one does have gates. But that doesn’t make it feel any safer.
Today, 2150 species of plants belonging to 673 genera and 140 families can be seen in Lalbagh. (Karnataka horticulture department)
In fact, the footpath running alongside it feels safer than the park itself. Why is that?
Why do the same people who insist that parks need “security” never ask for footpaths to be made “secure”?
Because security is just an excuse. The real intention is this: those “others” should not come here.
And they’ve done that quite successfully.
(Even if there are valid reasons why parks and public spaces may feel unsafe, they rarely inspire a genuine sense of security. There’s a simple explanation for this: most of these places feel unsafe because they are empty. A deserted space naturally creates a sense of unease.
The second reason is inadequate lighting and poor visibility. Walls, shrubs, and other structures create obstacles, preventing a clear line of sight from one side to the other.
If some people feel that someone might cause them harm, that fear cannot be entirely dismissed.
But the solution is certainly not to restrict access. On the contrary, encouraging more people to use these spaces makes them safer.
Except for large trees, removing the shrubs and small plants that block visibility would go a long way in addressing the problem.)
Now, returning to the first question: why did the beautiful word Poromboku come to mean ‘valuelessness’ or ‘worthlessness’? I don’t have a clear answer.
But there’s always a fuss around grabbing all kinds of commons, preventing others from using them, and reserving these spaces for just a few.
My guess is that the word Poromboku is being used in this way as part of that fuss. Some “upper”-class people feel their sense of “superiority” only when others are excluded.
You have everything – Thirdwave coffee shops, Starbucks, bowling alleys, stylish pubs, hotels, malls, newly designed cafés – everything.
But the poor don’t have any of these. They have only the commons.
A more important question is: why are we leaving the commons – our rightful spaces – to just a few, to the upper classes?
We need playgrounds. We need access to lakesides for walking and resting. We need parks.
Reclaiming the commons – making them truly public once again – must be our priority.
Two final thoughts.
First, we need to think more deeply about women and their relationship to the commons. This is an urgent and complex issue, and I hope to study and write more about it.
Second, a promising development: the BBMP has issued a circular stating that all parks should remain open throughout the day – from 5 in the morning until 10 at night.
This is a welcome move.
Yet, even after this order, some parks – closed for years during the daytime – remain shut. Let’s make sure they stay open.
(The writer is a social activist involved in the theatre and cinema scenes. He is an active member of the ‘Jagruta Karnataka’. This piece was originally published on eedina.com and has been reproduced with permission. Translated from Kannada and edited by Dese Gowda)
